


hands on heart

by rynleaf



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Edelgard's Victorian Pining, F/F, Getting Together, Mild Angst, Timeskip Spoilers, a very tiny mostly fade to black sex scene, blink and you miss it - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:26:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23067706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rynleaf/pseuds/rynleaf
Summary: Byleth changes into an attire similar to her old clothes after a bath, but elects to keep her hair long: Edelgard’s gaze is drawn to its silky length gathered into a low ponytail, the gap where the back of her neck shows above the collar of her coat. Wispy short strands of hair cling to the skin, pale on pale. Under, just in the shadow of the collar, Edelgard can see the uppermost knob of her spine, and the sight leaves her warm and winded.Stupid, she thinks. Let it go.But part of her has always been selfish.-In which Edelgard pines some more, Byleth wears everyone's favourite pirate outfit, and tea is consumed.
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 13
Kudos: 215





	hands on heart

**Author's Note:**

> I got so tired of looking at this, so here. Wrists, necks and pining. I don't even know anymore, happy international women's day!

It’s hard to decide which part is the hardest: Byleth’s disappearance and presumed death, or her eventual return. 

The first, Edelgard stumbles through with little grace. She cries and curses, she risks herself on battlefields, she spends more resources than what they can spare for a search that she knows is useless. Nobody stops her. 

The second makes her falter in an entirely different kind of way. 

At first she thinks her a ghost: a figure dressed in black coming back to haunt her, the goddess mocking her confusion and grief with one last kick in the stomach before Edelgard wipes her off the face of Fódlan. Then she notices the circles under Byleth’s eyes, the hair that trails all the way to her waist, the clothes borrowed, ill-fitting. 

“El,” Byleth says, voice quiet, unsure. She is shaking, Edelgard notes absently, while her mind works to sort her thoughts into an order that makes at least  _ some _ sense _.  _

“You’re  _ dead,”  _ the thought spills out, unbidden. Byleth winces. 

“Where were you?” Edelgard continues, striding closer, hands reaching out. “Where _were_ you? I’ve been looking for you. We buried you!” 

The memorial service was short, bitter. Edelgard left halfway through. 

“Dead,” Byleth nods. “Then, awake again. Yesterday.” 

“I don’t understand,” Edelgard whispers and wipes a stray, angry tear off her cheek. Byleth shakes her head, frowning, and moves to clasp Edelgard’s shoulders. The touch is familiar. An echo, a ghost. 

“The Immaculate One,” she says, quiet like aways. “I think I must have slept. It hurt. A lot. Burning,” she adds, and lifts an arm as if looking for something--scars perhaps, Edelgard thinks, and the thought makes her heart hurt. 

“My teacher,” she says, uncertain. Byleth squeezes her shoulders, reaches up to tuck a stray lock of hair back behind her headdress. 

“Five years,” she says. “You’re here.”

“We promised we would.” 

Byleth nods, then smiles: sun breaking over water, a rare and precious thing. 

“Let’s find the others,” Edelgard says, taking a deep and ragged breath, “and see if Caspar has left any of that spiced cake from yesterday’s dinner.”

Byleth’s eyes widen with pleased surprise. 

At least where sweets are concerned, she’s still nothing if not predictable.    
  
  


For a while it’s almost like it’s been before. The others gather and the bickering goes on: Hubert and Ferdinand continue their biting circles around one another, Linhardt falls asleep in the middle of dessert, Felix mashes his baked potato into Sylvain’s face while the other almost chokes with laughter. Caspar tugs his shirt sleeve up to show off his muscles. Ingrid and Petra quietly discuss flight training regimens, Dorothea listening in. 

And yet. 

Byleth changes into an attire similar to her old clothes after a bath, but elects to keep her hair long: Edelgard’s gaze is drawn to its silky length gathered into a low ponytail, the gap where the back of her neck shows above the collar of her coat. Wispy short strands of hair cling to the skin, pale on pale. Under, just in the shadow of the collar, Edelgard can see the uppermost knob of her spine, and the sight leaves her warm and winded. 

_ Stupid, _ she thinks.  _ Let it go. _

But part of her has always been selfish. 

Hubert corners her one afternoon, just after war council is dismissed. Edelgard has been distracted, uncharacteristically so: every glimpse of Byleth from the corner of her eye is a shock, a heady mixture of joy and leftover grief. Hubert must notice _.  _ The furrow between his brows when he approaches is pronounced in concern. 

“I’m fine,” Edelgard says before he has the chance to say anything. 

Hubert raises a single eyebrow. 

“I’m serious,” Edelgard adds, looking up, “I’m fine. You don’t need to fuss.”

“I never fuss,” Hubert scoffs, offended. Then he leans against the long conference table and reaches down to straighten Edelgard’s collar. “It's only... I was there for the fallout. It wasn’t pretty. Now Byleth is back and you’re not quite yourself, forgive me if I’m somewhat concerned on your behalf.” 

“You’ve always been too observant for your own good,” Edelgard says with a tired sigh. “Would you get rid of her if you thought it my best interest?”

“Without hesitation,” Hubert says, flashing his teeth in an unpleasant smile. Edelgard chuckles, then turns back to fiddle with her paperwork. 

“Tell me,” Hubert prods gently. 

“It’s not the strangest thing, her being asleep for five years,” Edelgard says. “I don’t doubt that she’s telling the truth as she knows it. And yet… sometimes I wonder. I wonder how she survived. I wonder why she’s  _ back.”  _

“Besides her surprising violent streak, or lack of anything better to do in wartime?” 

“Besides that, yes.”

Hubert sighs. 

“For all her strange qualities, our teacher has always been a woman of principle. She chose you, remember?” 

“How could I forget?” Edelgard says, wistful: the memory of that horrid day is clear as always, Rhea’s words piercing, the coiled, tense anger in Byleth’s posture as she placed herself between them. 

“Maybe you should ask her. Lately I’m finding straight-forward communication a surprisingly effective tactic,” Hubert remarks. Edelgard looks up, noting his expression. 

“New developments?” 

Watching Hubert blush is a rare treat, and she can’t help but smile at the sight. Hubert embarrassed is like a cat that missed a jump: ruffled, haughty, furious. 

“I can assure you,” he says, falling back on formality like clockwork, “there is nothing for you to  know,  Your Majesty. _ ”  _

“Say hello to Ferdinand for me,” Edelgard replies, twisting the knife a quarter turn, and laughs at Hubert’s curt bow and his consequent storming out, complete with baging the conference room door shut. His cloak tumbles after him with an appropriate sense of drama. 

Life at Garreg Mach goes on like this: a war is meticulously planned and executed, troops are trained and rotated out, and Edelgard continues to be driven to distraction by Byleth’s wrists, the curve of her neck, her scars. 

“Feet,” Byleth says, pointing at Edelgard’s back foot planted at a shoddy angle. Her breath has barely quickened in the past fifteen minutes, and Edelgard finds it all terribly unfair: the high-waisted trousers, the billowing shirt, the sweat that rolls down Byleth’s neck to disappear under her collar. Edelgard rolls her shoulders, corrects her posture, and readjusts her grip on her axe. 

“Again,” she says. Byleth nods, lifting her sword: a plain thing with a red tassel at the hilt, unassuming and deceptively sharp. 

They engage, Edelgard countering each of Byleth’s moves with steady strength. Byleth’s blade slips off her training bracers and Edelgard swings the butt end of her axe down. Metal screeches as Byleth counters the move. Edelgard is strong, but Byleth is faster: she dances away and turns, moving back with perfect footwork to slip under Edelgard’s defences. A hit, a tug, and Edelgard suddenly finds herself on her back, looking up at the pleased expression on Byleth’s face as she steadies her in a flawless hold. 

“Good,” she says, and Edelgard has to choke back a whimper at the sensation of dense weight holding her down, the sight of Byleth muscles, the shadow of breasts under the collar of her shirt. 

“You still got me,” she croaks, but Byleth shakes her head. 

“I’m too fast, but you have gotten very strong.” 

“Well…” 

Byleth settles her weight back, letting go of the chokehold but still kneeling over Edelgard’s prone form as she reaches to tug the ribbon holding her hair up loose. Light locks tumble down, and Byleth rakes her fingers through them unselfconsciously before she wraps them up again. 

“Good spar,” she says, apparently unaware of Edelgard’s sudden and mortifying need to wheeze, go up in flames, perhaps die. “Same time tomorrow?”

“Same time tomorrow,” Edelgard says, taking the offered hand and letting herself be helped up like she weighs nothing. 

“Bath,” Byleth says then, gathering her overcoat in one hand while holding onto Edelgard with the other. 

The communal baths are blessedly empty, so nobody witnesses Edelgard’s expression as she catches Byleth’s shirt drop, then her trousers. 

“Are you coming?” Byleth asks, turning to peer at Edelgard over her shoulder. 

Edelgard, hand frozen on her uppermost shirt button, can only nod. 

  
  
  


The question spills out two weeks before they march for Fhirdiad, over a pot of Almyrian berry tea and a tray of cakes. 

“You could have gone anywhere,” Edelgard says, restless fingers busying themselves with arranging her teaspoon on the saucer just so. “Yet you returned here, after you woke up. Why?” 

Byleth pauses halfway through reaching for another cream-filled pastry. 

“I don’t understand the question,” she says. 

“There was no more Academy, no more Church of Seiros,” Edelgard continues. “You almost died. There is a war. And still, you came to Garreg Mach. To find us.”

“You,” Byleth says, finally picking up the pastry. “Find you.” 

“Oh.” 

There is a few seconds of silence. Edelgard avoids Byleth’s assessing gaze by sipping tea--hot, the flavour bursting and a touch too sweet. Rain beats the conference room windows in an even rhythm.

“Is that really so hard to believe?” Byleth asks. “That I would choose you?”

“No one has ever chosen me before,” the thought spills out quite without Edelgard’s permission, shaky and uncertain in the low light of candles. “I find it… a difficult thing to digest.” 

Byleth hums thoughtfully, then bites into her pastry. A dollop of cream smears over her upper lip. Edelgard looks at it helplessly for a moment, then takes another sip of tea. 

“There was something,” Byleth says, tapping a fingernail against the rim of her teacup. “There was something about you, that first time. Do you remember? The bandits, Claude, Dimitri and you?”

“How could I possibly forget,” Edelgard says in a low voice. “It brought you to us, that night.” 

“Mm,” Byleth nods, then continues. “There was something. A feeling. I felt… drawn.” 

“Oh?” 

“El,” Byleth puts her pastry down and leans in, eyes certain and unwavering, on Edelgard. “You were my choice. Mine. This whole time.” 

“I see.”  _ She doesn’t mean it,  _ the voice in the back of Edelgard’s head says.  _ She doesn’t mean it like you do. _ “You’re a good friend,” Edelgard presses on through the lump in her throat, “and a good teacher. I’m grateful.” 

Byleth winces, then shakes her head with a half-smile. “You don’t understand.” 

“Oh." 

Byleth looks down at her lap, drags her finger around the rim of her teacup. Her brows furrow. 

“I’m not good with words,” she says. “Dorothea said to write it out in a letter, but that seemed…,” she winces again,  _ “dramatic.”  _

“Dorothea is like that,” Edelgard says, bewildered, trying to follow. 

“Mm. It wasn’t good advice. Words are hard. But my choice… you. I.” Byleth sighs, frustrated, then reaches out to clasp one of Edelgard’s hands in her own. “Hubert says I need to  _ spell it out. _ El, are you listening?”

“Yes.” Edelgard has never paid this much attention to anything in her life. 

“I think I’m in love with you, and I don’t know what to do about it.” 

Edelgard stares. 

“If you don’t say something now, I might die,” Byleth adds quietly. 

“I thought you disliked drama,” Edelgard croaks, and Byleth tilts her head to the side with a blush. 

“No drama. The truth. You’re very strong. It makes me,” she gestures vaguely with her free hand, “feel things.” 

“I,” Edelgard whispers. Then she reaches out with her left hand, slowly, tracing Byleth’s jawline with a single finger.

“You drive me absolutely crazy,” she says. 

“I’m going to do something,” Byleth says, drawing her free hand along Edelgard’s fingers, her arm. She moves to stroke along one of the long locks of hair framing Edelgard’s face. 

The headdress unclips, slides free, knocks softly on the table as Byleth draws it off Edelgard’s braids. The loops uncoil, spilling around her shoulders.

“Missed this,” Byleth says softly. “Missed you.” 

  
  
  
  


Edelgard has never been so happy about Hubert’s insistence to move her out of the Academy dormitories and into a set of rooms above the library.  _ Appearances are important, _ he said at the time. 

_ Privacy,  _ she thinks, pressed against the door with Byleth staring up at her through half-lidded eyes,  _ privacy is also very important. _

“I want to kiss you,” Byleth says. “I want to touch you everywhere.”

“Shit,” Edelgard breathes. Byleth’s eyes crinkle with amusement. 

“I didn’t know you could swear.”

_ “Please,”  _ Edelgard whispers, drawing Byleth close, close. “I want to see you. All of you. Byleth,” she continues, watching her pull back: hands reach, sword calluses are firm against Edelgard’s cheek. She leans down, kisses the hollow of Byleth’s throat. Byleth makes a wounded noise in return. 

“More,” she whispers, carding her fingers through Edelgard’s hair. 

Her neck is soft as Edelgard noses along it, and the hollow behind her ear smells like soap and sword oil and lilacs: Edelgard reaches to stroke under her ponytail with shaking fingers, the hair fine and silky under her skin. Each kiss is rewarded with a breathy noise. Each stroke of hand comes with the pressure of nails against the back of Edelgard’s head, the arch of Byleth’s back. 

“I want to,” Edelgard starts, and Byleth nods. The kiss is hurried, feverish. Edelgard has been kissed before, but never like this: Byleth is sure and giving, fingers gentle but firm as they cradle Edelgard's jaw. 

“You,” she says, “drive me crazy too.” 

What else is there to say to that? 

Byleth unwraps Edelgard slowly, each ribbon and button lasting an age: she presses breathy kisses at the nape of her neck, the knobs of her spine, between each button as she opens her coat, her corset, her shirt. She hums as she noses between Edelgard's breasts. Edelgard chokes a laugh when she blows softly at her belly button, then gasps as Byleth's tongue follows the scar that draws a line between her right hipbone and her shoulder. It's an old wound, faded and grey. Edelgard shivers under Byleth's mouth. 

"I like this," Byleth mouths into Edelgard's belly, fingers working the ties of her underdress with unsurprising dexterity. "Smells good. Soft." 

"You," Edelgard chokes.  _ Fuck.  _ Would anyone wonder if she died, here? Under Byleth's clever touch, her mouth, her hands gliding up to cup her breasts? Under her gaze, reverent like she's looking at something holy? "You will be the death of me." 

Byleth looks up, nose wrinkling. She appears to be considering something. 

"No," she says after a few seconds. "Maybe in fifteen minutes."  
  
Edelgard is breathless with laughter as Byleth reaches around her with a soft smile, eyes sparkling with mirth. She is lifted into strong, sword-trained arms, and her underdress flutters open between the door and the bed: Byleth wastes no time, kissing one breast then the next, laying Edelgard out on the bed with care and making quick work of her underwear. Edelgard squirms under her gaze, soft and pleased in the half-light.   
  
"You're wearing too much," she says, face burning. Byleth nods, and pulls her shirt over her head without ceremony. 

Then she proceeds to stroke Edelgard open with agonising slowness, hands doing soft and wonderful thingsskimming her ribs and opening her thighs, dragging a finger, then two down her opening. 

"Please," Edelgard cries, hips rising to chase the feeling. Byleth grins, bends down, and gives her more. 

After--once Edelgard comes twice and Byleth takes her own pleasure, hands moving between her legs while her mouth is busy elsewhere--they fold themselves around one another and spend some time listening to the rain beating down the roof. 

"Did you know there is a betting pool?" Byleth asks, fingers never stopping their movement through Edelgard's hair. Edelgard blinks up. 

"What?"

"Ferdinand won."

"Oh, Hubert is going to be pissed," Edelgard laughs into Byleth's collarbone. She follows it up with a kiss. Byleth hums and stretches, unselfconscious and beautiul in her nakedness: acres of golden skin, muscles and scars. 

"I'm sure they will find a way to talk it out."

_"Talk,"_ Edelgard scoffs. Byleth huffs a laugh against her forehead. 

"There is a betting pool for that, too. Not too late to get in."

"I clearly give people too much free time."

"Sylvain's idea. He has big money on the night before Fhirdiad."

"I give them a week at most," Edelgard says, and basks in the sight of Byleth's grin. 

"You're on."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this mess <3


End file.
